This isn't the sound of love,
Or pain, or washed up loneliness,
Or chalk being disintegrated across a board of nails.
Have you heard the silence of emptiness,
Well, almost emptiness, not enough not to write a poem.
Not of despair, but of emptiness.
It's easy not to know where to go, but once you have fixed everything,
What happens?
Do you stay, or go, or dissociate.
The choice is yours.